' The streets were lined with mourners, those he knew and had not met,

there to do their duty and whisper, "We shall not forget". '


I would never class myself as a typical poet - I don't even own a corduroy jacket, but when I was growing up I loved Roald Dahl's Revolting Rhymes and Milligan's limericks and would often make up my own, but as I was exposed to the meritorious lines of Keats, Shelley and Owen, I realised how immensely powerful poetry could be. In 2010 after hearing about the deaths of two young local soldiers in Afghanistan, I wrote a poem entitled, 'A British Heart', paying tribute to the sacfice made by those in our Armed Forces on behalf of us and for our continued freedom. I sent the poem to a couple of local Regiments who in turn sent it on to Regiments all over the country and various military publications. I was contacted by The Household Cavalry who requested permission to use the poem at fundraising events for their Operational Casualties Fund. I was also very moved to receive letters from families who had lost loved ones in conflict, stating how much comfort the poem had brought them and in 2012 the poem won the United Press National Poetry Award, beating over 12,000 other entries and making me the youngest ever winner in the competition's history.

A British Heart


Down beats the drummer’s hand to lead them on their way.

Faultlessly they march in line, no single stride astray.

Immaculate from head to toe, this military perfection;

These highly polished men, today in personal reflection.

With heads held high and shoulders back, they carry him with pride;

Their ally and their friend, who on the battlefield had died.

The English breeze caressed the air and dried the springtime dew;

As children watched in wonder at the draped red, white and blue.

He was just a boy himself, yet the job had made him older.

To most he was a fearsome sight, an armed and dangerous soldier.

But to his doting mother, who now numb forever more;

He’d always be her tender son, snatched from her by war.

The streets were lined with mourners: those he knew and had not met;

There to do their duty and whisper, “We shall not forget”.

He spent his life in service, to his Country, to his Queen;

He gave his life for freedom, a better future, now unseen.

The essence of a British heart: proud and brave and loyal;

Returning home to peaceful rest, within the British soil.

I have no idea where the source of my next poem will come from, it could be formed around a curious word I hear, a strange dream I have or even a tasty corn-based snack I’m eating. The poem below, 'A Woman of Easy Virtue' came about entirely from reading the phrase ‘a gibbous moon'. Although this might not be the typical way to write poetry it seems to work for me, plus I once wasted a whole week trying to 'look inside myself' and write about what was 'in my heart', so I ended up writing a poem about cardiomyopathy, which was rubbish as nothing much rhymes with ‘dilated left ventricle’.

A Woman Of Easy Virtue

Her face was hid like a gibbous moon, behind the feckless bounder.

I’d ransacked half of Soho ‘til eventually I found her.

Canoodled in the corner of a joint near Leicester Square;

I recognised her raucous laugh and erogenous flowing hair.

Uncouthly quaffing coups of fizz, the philtre that he gave her;

I smiled with grim delight to know this moment I would savour!

I made my way between the brutes all bragging of their Porsches;

The air so dense with self-important scent it made me nauseous.

Her face jerked up with eyes a-wide like a dog expecting treats,

But all I had to feed this bitch was knowledge of her deceits!

Her cheeks transposed like litmus as she heard my words of acid.

To both of our annoyance the young cad remained quite placid.

”There was a time a gentleman would stand up for his lady.”

He calmly cocked a snook and sniped, “She’s hardly Marcia Brady.”

This received a soaking in the subjects’ Champagne Charlie;

And nearly found a fist upon the nose he’d fixed on Harley.

And as her tears welled up within those eyes I once thought pure,

I felt a tinge of sadness as I turned towards the door.

She was once a woman whom I truly loved and cherished.

Feelings, so emphatic, with perfidiousness had perished.

So listen when I warn thee of the one who’s sure to hurt you,

And never give your heart, my friend, to a woman of easy virtue.

When I Awake

When I awake on dreary days,

I lie a while and softly gaze,

Upon the beauty next to me;

The prettiest girl there’ll ever be.

Cocooned within these sheets of cotton,

Worries of the world forgotten;

Replaced with thoughts of summer skies,

And feeling, still, the butterflies.

Your lips a delicate soft delight,

That smile and make the darkness bright.

And eyes that when they meet with mine,

Reflect your soul’s eternal shine.

I stroke your warm and tender skin,

That shrouds your beating heart within.

A heart, I pray, that beats for me,

As mine shall always beat for thee.

When I awake on dreary days,

As you remain in dreamy haze,

I smile and thank the Gods above,

As once again I fall in love.

Fat Man - Free Verse

(Written in protest to free verse. You can basically just say anything, the weirder the better it seems)


The sound of the gravel inconsistent with the weight.

Crushing. Biting. Screaming.

The corrugated sofa which flexed as dust settled on the road,

And over my shoulder I see him. Large.

I make my way were love had been, and itch my corduroy knee.

I hear the pennies jangle in his pocket like the bell on a Milking Shorthorn,

And over the misty lake of soliloquies he turns his head to my door.

The gravel squeeze together like their distant pebble forefathers,

And for an instant everything is calm.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Knuckles of fat bounce back then return.

A fruit-fly lands on my shirt and I pinch it, staining the cotton.

Nothing will be the same from now.

The Girl From Sporange

(To be read in a Scottish accent)

I fell in love with a girl from Sporange,

Her eyes were blue and her hair was orange.

We met on a train coming back from Dundee;

I sat on her sandwich, she sat on my knee.

Her skin was pure white, like a summer’s day cloud,

Her bosom was ample, crested and proud.

She came from a bloodline of fisherman long,

T'was shown in her hands and delicate pong.

She rode on her bike selling salmon and shrimp,

And thanks to no saddle she walked with a limp.

On Christmas Day’s eve, a kiss did I slip her,

Then gave her a goose, she gave me a kipper.

I went to her father, old Angus McDougal,

A pallid old man, both doomsted and frugal.

Asking permission to marry his daughter,

He looked at me like I’s a lamb to the slaughter.

“Aye” groaned the fossil, “But when will it be?

From Monday to Sunday I’m working at sea.”

Perfect, I lied, we shall wed on your trawler.

T'will be quite a squeeze but the cost will be smaller.

This news met with anger as she felt I was skimping.

"You expect us to marry while my father keeps shrimping!?"

"The day will be perfect", of that I assured her,

And this she believed the more whiskey I poured her.

The day came along with an overcast greeting.

The sun said hello, but its presence was fleeting.

We convened at the harbor and boarded the vessel

Admiring the buffet laid out on a tressel.


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